


Rites Performed

by dorothy_notgale



Category: Bride of Re-Animator (1989), Re-Animator (1985)
Genre: Corpsefucker Dan, EXTREMELY Unsafe Sex, Eroticized Descriptions Of Corpses, M/M, Necrophilia, Necrophilia Role Play, Possibly Fatal Sex, Self Loathing, Sex With Unconscious Partner (Consensual), Sick Puppy, The Author Regrets Everything, Unsafe Sex, What Have I Done, do not try this at home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:59:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5082148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothy_notgale/pseuds/dorothy_notgale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan Cain has a somewhat more intense interest in corpses than is generally considered healthy. Unlike his partner, Dan's interest is <em>not</em> purely scientific.<br/>Relationships are all about compromise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rites Performed

**Author's Note:**

> The NEW creepiest thing I've ever written.

_Dan dislikes the way it feels to be among corpses—the disquieting restfulness inherent in bodies, not people. None of them need anything anymore; none of them can be failed any further._

_If he tends to linger on his visits to the morgue, that's normal enough. Train-wreck fascination. Plenty of people hang out in cemeteries—at least as a student, he has an excuse._

_Being interrupted is probably a good thing. He's not sure what would happen if, somehow, he were alone for a long enough time with the dead._

_Probably nothing. Curiosity's not a crime._

_Still, it's for the best that someone happened to be here._

_The new student looks weirdly flawless. He's overly formal, in black suit and tie, dark hair precisely combed; that, coupled with his pallor, makes it seem as though he should be laid out safely in a funeral parlor, not walking around where people can spoil him._

(Don't stare.)

_He doesn't shake hands. Dan imagines the denied touch to be cold and stiff._

~*~*~*~

“Daniel.” Herbert's words are carried down the line to the nurse's station with a tinny sound of distance, and Dan pitches his voice low in hopes that not too many people realize he's been called away from a patient to talk to the guy he'll see at home in a few hours anyway.

“Herbert? What's going on?” _(P_ _lease don't be a crisis_ _)_ _._ Herbert's been antsy for the past month, headed for either a crash or a breakthrough in formulation, and phone calls at work are rarely a good sign. Christ, sometimes Dan just wants a day's peace and quiet. Or more.

~*~*~*~

_Actually living with West is something of a disappointment. His face flits rapidly from expression to expression; his movements are restless; he sweats; he blinks; he never seems to sleep._

_The languid, self-contained confidence Dan had so admired at first meeting vanishes into buzzing activity._

_He sourly hopes West hasn't brought coke or speed into the house. Illegal sublets are nearly impossible to terminate without being evicted, and Dan can't have that sort of mark against him._

_He really wishes West would take a nap._

~*~*~*~

“It's all right, Daniel.” The voice on the other end of the line sounds upbeat, more cheerful than it has in ages, and optimism mixes with wariness as Dan contemplates what samples he might be asked to procure if it's back to testing again. “Don't worry. I just wanted to let you know that I have a present for you, to thank you for all your help.”

 _(Oh no no no no no, what now?)_ “Will I _like_ this present?”

“When you get home, you'll find there's been a death in the family.”

“Oh. Oh, my God.”

~*~*~*~

_On the way to Meg's funeral, Dan considers the fact that he's never seen her asleep. She didn't stay over, and if anyone nodded off it was him. He imagines her softly dreaming, Sleeping Beauty or Snow White waiting for him to brush a kiss against lifeless lips yet again. Anticipation thrums in his veins; the cellophane of her bouquet creaks in his grip as Herbert parks his decrepit station wagon in the church fire lane._

_Of course, Dan's forgotten that it's to be closed casket. For good reason._

~*~*~*~

“Have a nice shift.” The sing-song smile over the line says that Herbert knows exactly what his words have caused.

Whatever Dan's done to deserve this, he hopes he can manage it again.

Buying a token seems only fitting; Dan picks up a vase of white stargazers on the way home, and has to keep himself from smirking when the clerk murmurs something about being sorry for his loss. He likes the idea of them suffusing the room with their morbid cloy, so different from romantic rose.

~*~*~*~

_She's perfect, lying there on the slab. A work of art—who knew Herbert had such poetry in him, to choose her parts so carefully for their symbolism as well as their shapes? All for Herbert's twin loves, Dan and Science. Dan must find a way to thank him._

_She's blue and lovely, spread out like a feast, and Dan's starving. He does not touch, yet, any more than is proper for a doctor with a patient; he will later, he is certain. The rapture on Herbert's face when Dan plunges the needle in is a gratification of its own sort._

_But when she presses herself full-length against him, still cool but now active and willing, it's all wrong. He meets Herbert's gaze and realizes that his desire is as dead as she used to be._

~*~*~*~

And, yes, when he gets there it's flawless. Herbert has laid his white self out on black sheets that hide a cooling blanket, naked save for a handkerchief covering his face shroudlike and a modesty drape over his crotch. A bead of drying blood at the needle mark on his upraised left arm mars the creamy expanse of flesh, but even that looks almost artful. He's cold and wan and clinically prepared, body incapable of resisting Dan's advances.

He really does look dead. There's the same stillness and solidity as the ones in the morgue, though Herbert's always been prettier than they are, like some careful mortician took the time to paint him up for his last public appearance. He's coquettish in that same way, meant to be looked at and longed for but never touched. This vision of waxen stagnation deserves an entire wake's worth of worshipers to kneel by it, rather than just Dan.

Of course, unlike the rabble, Dan has _permission_ to touch this flaunted body.

~*~*~*~

“ _What_ _is it that_ _you_ want, _Dan?”_ _Herbert gesticulates wildly, frustration rising from his naked body like steam._ _“More enthusiasm?_ _More violence?_ _You were the one who suggested asphyxiation, then failed to follow through.”_

(He'd hoped seeing the brief cessation of breath would be enough. Instead, the intense movement, the struggling, the feel of the pulse—all had sickened him. This has to stop. He has to manage it.)

“ _No, I… it's...” he swallows. “Could you be more passive sometimes?”_

“ _Passive.” Herbert slows, now, blinking, but it's a controlled stillness. To be acted upon is so far from his nature._

“ _Not always,” Dan hears the begging in his own voice, but this_ has _to stop. “I know it's not what you—”_

“ _It's not a problem.” Herbert waves his concerns away with the authority of one who can truly make it so. “Please, explain.”_

“ _Just… don't move. Or strain. Or make any noises.” And maybe, if this works, he can get it out of his system._

“ _...All right. If that will please you.”_

“ _Thank you.”_

_Dan's relief at the agreement is short-lived, though, dying with Herbert's too-astute next words:_

“ _Would you like me to do anything else? Take a cold bath, perhaps, or use a chilled plug beforehand?”_

“ _What!?” Yes. Yes, he would like that._

“ _You_ are _asking me to play a—”_

“ _No!”_ (Don'tLetHimFinish)

“ _Dan. Love. I know you. I_ remember _.”_ (Nonononono) _Dan flinches away from too-careful, too-caring hands that would gentle him like a horse._

“ _Shut up,” he hisses. “I just want to touch you.”_

“ _I'm sure you do—especially if I'm no longer living.” Herbert's breathing is loud in the quiet bedroom, no faster or slower than ever, as though this is a perfectly ordinary conversation._

“ _It's_ not like _that.”_ _It can't be like that. He won't let it. It's too—_

 _Herbert laughs, then, as though poking his snub fucking nose into the most repulsive thing about Dan is some_ game _._

“ _Stop mocking me!” Dan bristles, knuckles white where he's gripping the back of their desk chair._

“ _Mocking? The offer was genuine. Honestly, you get upset over the strangest things.” Herbert moves yet closer, gingerly trails his thumb down Dan's shame-damp cheek. “I want you to have a good time, Danny. Our sex life should be fulfilling to both parties—even if that requires a bit of work.”_

 _And this… this clear-eyed_ acceptance _is the strangest thing he's never dared to imagine. He's so unaccountably lucky._

~*~*~*~

He does start off kneeling on the provided cushion, a mourner with hidden joy in his heart. Herbert's hair brushes his fingers as he carefully holds the head in position. He kisses slack lips, swipes his tongue in and plays along the teeth when the jaw falls open. He'd like to do more, of course; if this were real he'd leave this beautiful orifice drooling and soiled. Sadly, oral sodomy is too dangerous a choking hazard to risk on a partner alive but insensate.

At first he just pets the lily-petal skin, kneading it and marveling at the pliability of usually-tense muscles beneath. The joints move smoothly, though not exactly easily—repositioning any limb requires thought and planning to account for the now-inert pulley system that normally propels it.

Still, with care he spreads the legs enough to begin. Soap-fresh genitals hang flaccid, a tender mouthful that issues no unruly response to his brief suckling. Below, the anus is clean, stretched, and wet with lubricant, neither begging nor refusing. Simply quiescent, waiting to be acted upon or not at Dan's whim.

As though there's any question as to which he'll choose.

He strips, folding his clothes with a feeling akin to reverence. Leaving them strewn about in front of this tidy faux corpse would be uncouth, given all the effort that went into its presentation. The bed is cold, uncomfortably so due to the cooling blanket; he clicks it off and lies down beside his prize.

Most ordinary positions would be difficult. Herbert's body looks so sweet, though, when he rolls it onto its side. Dan tucks the floppy arms forward, bends the lower leg and grasps the upper at the knee. Spooning up behind, he glides in. It's not just being inside that slippery-lax hole that makes it good; it's the frigid, smooth back pressed to his chest, the way the full weight of this object falls to him, driving him deeper. He mouths at the lolling neck and nuzzles the hair, gently nips the shoulder, strokes underarms and counts ribs. No gasps or twitches or moans beside his own spoil it; he can give exactly the affection and touches he chooses and rest assured that they are accepted.

It's decadent, this pleasure-taking, and Dan relishes it wholeheartedly.

He wants to savor, but the accuracy of the illusion following an afternoon's frustrated fantasies means he's pounding away in minutes. Maybe next time he can go slow and make an evening of it; for now he's caught up in the thrusting, the rubbing, the effort of holding that drooping leg in position and keeping the body from being pushed too far away by his own momentum. They fall most of the way onto Herbert's front as Dan finishes, spraying hot pulses of life into cold dead ground. The aching fulfillment brings tears to his eyes.

He remains inside until he's as limp as his partner, then tugs the slight figure into a loose cuddle. Herbert feels a little lighter, somehow, than usual—a little devoid of substance. Working too hard again, certain as ever that _this time_ he has the answer. It would be funny if it weren't so sad. Dan will have to pay better attention to how much he's eating; a bit of extra cosseting's the least he can do to thank him for this. It's so _nice_ when he's quiet.

Dan's idly tracing circles around a nipple in post-coital fondness when he realizes.

The chest isn't rising.

He grabs a wrist, gropes for the carotid, slaps a hysterical palm to the sternum, but they all indicate the same thing: there's no pulse.

The body sharing his bed is a _body_.

 _(Had_ _it_ _ever_ _been breathing?)_

He'd been alive when Dan began. _(How long ago?)_  He _had_ to have been. Dan wasn't that sick, that oblivious. He'd have noticed if it was real.

_(Is this why it was so good?)_

Dear God, he's a necrophile. Officially.

He begins compressions, finesse wiped away by urgency; a rib crunches beneath his hands, which is par for the course. Puffing breath into the corpse taints ashen lips with his own fear bile. But after just a few efforts, he realizes that without knowing when the injection occurred, or when respiration ceased, it's pointless. The six to twelve minute limit on normal resuscitation remains.

Almost on autopilot, he sits back and rifles through the bedside mini-fridge for the vial of sedative, comparing the level with what had been left when he plundered it from the hospital's disposal bin.

It's low, _far_ too low for the missing liquid to constitute anything resembling a safe dose, let alone the light doze they'd discussed. How the Hell had Herbert made such a mistake? Why would he… even unsupervised, he should have known better. He must have known better.

Dan can't bring him back from this alone. And calling for help means explaining this revolting, ghastly, blatantly sexual tableau. Dan will in all likelihood have to watch the paramedics fail and then explain to police how he managed to screw his best friend through a suicidal overdose and gleefully spill himself in the bowels of a corpse. _(He won't be invited to_ that _funeral—or_ _probably_ _any others, come to think of it.)_

Reaching again into the refrigerator, he bows to the inevitable. The _only_ way out, given the givens. It's what Herbert would want; it's probably all he ever wanted in the first place. How goddamn tidy.

The syringe glows eerily as Dan cradles that fragile skull one-handed and searches for a proper injection site. He reflects that whether or not this works, he'll still be the luckiest man alive—because Herbert West, his perfect fuck, won't be. Not ever again.

 


End file.
